Chasing Time Again
by winter machine
Summary: There's a lot we don't know about the brain - so it's possible he can hear them.


For Rach, whose talent makes me see more in these characters all the time.

* * *

******_Do you remember the day when my journey began?  
__Will you remember the end (of time)?_**

* * *

**Chasing Time Again**

* * *

He's holding the red-striped beach towel out behind him so it will fly in the breeze. If he does it really, really good it feels almost like he's flying. Like a superhero. But if anyone catches him he's got the perfect excuse: he's just bringing in the towels from the line where they've been drying in the sun. Dry grass scratches his bare toes as he jogs lightly down the lawn, letting the towel fly out behind him. He imagines a trumpet sound in his head, and some drums. He'd never admit this because he's almost nine, too old to be playing superhero, but sometimes he and Derek still play anyway.

Derek has a baby sister now and sometimes they pick her up and put her down in the backyard on a blanket and pretend it's railroad tracks and they have to rescue her. Amy's too little to play but she gurgles and laughs sometimes so she seems to like it. Mark and Derek take turns being the bad guy. They let Amy lie there a bit and then whoever's the superhero swoops in with his cape flying and scoops her up just before the train comes and says _I've got you _and carries her off to safety. _Super-Mark! _or _Super-Derek! _They're big kids now, cub scouts, but it's still fun to play in secret.

Derek would never tell. That what best friends are for: keeping secrets, and doing stuff other people don't understand. Derek's dad always says _every man needs a best friend_ and it makes Mark happy, and kind of stand up straighter, to be called a _man_. It's just a game but even when he's alone, like now, he likes the rough feel of the terry-cloth in his hand and the way the warm breeze lifts the towel behind him. Feels almost like flying.

He's alone this afternoon. Derek's mom says he can come over anytime _no invitation needed_ just like he lives there, except he doesn't want to go too much in case they change their minds. So at the playground today when Derek asked if his parents would be home today Mark said "I guess so," which wasn't a real lie because best friends don't lie to each other. It's okay anyway because it's still light out. Mark's allowed out until sunset, that's a rule their teacher said last year in class when they were talking about rules, so he decided he'd follow it. His parents don't make rules, not really, just _don't interrupt Mark we're trying to have a discussion _and _can't you keep him quiet goddamn it_ and those aren't real rules. When the sky starts to get pink that means it's almost sunset and he'll go inside and turn on the TV for company like he always does. It's nice when there are voices in the house, happy grown-up voices.

He watches lots of stuff. Sanford and Son, New Howdy Doody Show. He likes Charlie's Angels even though that's a show for grown-ups, because the ladies on it are pretty and he likes to look at them. His mom caught him watching it once and made a snorting sound and said "you're your father's son all right." Mark was confused because the words were nice but her voice made it sound like it was a bad thing. He likes some girly stuff. He likes Mary Tyler Moore because she's nice to look at, and he even watches Rhoda sometimes except it makes him a little sad because Mary and Rhoda are best friends so Rhoda shouldn't have moved to New York, she should have stayed in Minneapolis. Best friends should be together, and there's a big map of America in his classroom so he knows how far away Minnesota is from New York. Too far.

"Mark?"

He's running down the lawn again, chasing the breeze to make the towel fly out like a cape, when he hears it. A woman's voice, calling his name. Maybe his mom's home early. Or Derek's mom drove over to check on him, she does that sometimes.

"Mark?" There it is again. He turns, and the breeze turns with him, blowing the towel out behind him. _Super-Mark! _he whispers to himself, not even embarrassed. The sun is warm on his face and the breeze touches his face gently.

* * *

_Mark? ... Mark?_

_Would you please stop saying his name - just for a second, please?_

_I'm sorry! Derek, I'm just trying - I just want-_

_Okay, there's no need, don't get upset. It's just - you're making me nervous._

_I'm sorry. Should I not - touch him?_

_You can touch him. It's not up to me._

_Is it making you nervous?_

_Addison, would you please just - do whatever you came here to do. It's fine, we set this time- _

_He's ... not going to wake up, is he._

_Do you want to be alone with him for-_

_You didn't answer my question._

_I've answered it. You just don't want to hear it._

* * *

He wears a lot of hats. This weekend he's the peacemaker, the monkey in the middle. He finds it chameleon-easy to commiserate with Derek over the expressway traffic and in the same breath agree with Addison that there's nothing like a sea view.

"If you like the Hamptons so much, you buy a house here," Derek scowls, but it's a playful scowl. Mark knows the difference with the ease of a lifelong friendship. Addison's catching on, too, though it took her a while.

"I don't need to," Mark announces triumphantly. "I have yours. Right, Red?"

"Don't call me Red." Addison pulls a canvas tote of beach towels out of the trunk. "Here. Take that inside."

"That's right, Addie, put him to work." Derek kisses her cheek. "I think I'll go read the paper."

Mark clears his throat loudly and Addison gives Derek a playful shove. "_You_ can take the suitcases."

"We're here for the weekend, Addison, what did you pack? Bricks?"

She looks at both men with an expression of mock-hurt and they respond in unison: "Shoes."

"Of course," she says, shaking her head. "What else?"

"_My_ shoes take up no room at all," Derek stage-whispers.

Addison tosses her hair. "One of the perks of marriage is that I get lots of extra room for all _my_ things. And anyway, don't you want me to look pretty?"

"Don't answer that, man," Mark cautions, laying a hand on Derek's arm. "It's a trick."

They circle her, pretending to size her up. "Is she a sphinx? What else does she have in store for us?"

"Come on, guys," she says impatiently. "I want to get inside and - hey!" She swats Derek's hand anyway.

Mark lifts an eyebrow at Derek. "Think she bites?"

"Oh, I know for a fact she does." His eyes are twinkling.

"Would you two - oh, you're ridiculous." But she's smiling too. "I'm going inside to make myself a drink, and _if _you two can stop being ten years old for half a second and unload the car, I'll make one for each of you too."

Mark and Derek exchange a glance, and then a shrug. "Seems fair," Derek says cheerfully. They jostle each other good-naturedly as they sift through the bags in the trunk, each trying to leave the other with the heavier one.

"Not everything's a competition, you know," Addison calls over her shoulder as she strides up the flagstone steps to the front door.

"But some things are!" Derek calls after her retreating back, and takes advantage of Mark's momentary distraction to stick him with the bag of golf clubs.

* * *

_He can't hear us, right?_

_Right._

_You sound like you're not sure._

_The scans were certain, Addison, it's not a medical issue-_

_Then what is it?_

_If you'd let me finish my sentence, I'll tell you._

_Now I know he can't hear us, because if he could-_

_He would tell us to stop bickering._

_Exactly._

* * *

"Mark, would you please ask Derek to pass the salt?"

Mark looks from one of them to the other. The shaker - no, it's Addison, so it's a complicated cut crystal _grinder _thing with big pellets of salt - is by his right elbow, so he just passes it to her himself.

"Thank you," Addison rewards him with a dazzling smile, blue eyes shining. "_You_ are incredibly helpful. And thoughtful, and charming, and-"

"Mark, would you please tell Addison that she's remarkably passive-aggressive?"

The Shepherd tennis match. He swings his head again to wait for Addison to respond. Two spots of color have appeared on her cheekbones, and he thinks Derek might have gone too far this time. The tennis matches have gotten a bit weightier lately, it seems. Closer to the line. Or maybe it's that the three of them aren't enjoying them as much.

Addison turns back to Mark. "Are you enjoying the steak?"

"...yes," he says, after a few moments, trying to make sure there's no way he could piss either one of them off with his response.

"Mine's dry," Addison sighs and sets down her steak knife. It's one of those massive ones they got as one of their seemingly thousands of wedding presents, with big jutting wooden handles. When they unpacked it what seemed like a lifetime ago, Addison squealed with delight and then did a passable imitation of the movie _Psycho_ while Derek scolded her - _you're a surgeon, for pete's sake_ - and tried not to laugh.

"Then don't eat it," Derek says shortly and Mark looks over at him with surprise. Derek can be moody, impatient even, but not usually Addison.

Hurt registers in her eyes and she picks up her plate - knife included - and carries it into the house. Mark watches her retreating back, waiting for Derek to get up and go after her. He's seen it before. Addison can _almost_ match Derek with her moods.

When Derek doesn't move, just continues calmly eating his steak, slicing into his tomato salad with surgical precision, Mark pushes his own chair back.

"Don't," Derek says without looking up.

"Excuse me?" Mark's half out of his seat, hands on his knees.

"Don't - go after her, indulge her -" he waves one hand. Not the one with the knife. "You know how she gets."

"She seems like she might be upset-"

"She wants attention," Derek says shortly and Mark just furrows his brow, surprised at how quickly the evening has taken a turn. _Then why don't you give it to her, _he thinks uncharitably.

Mark stays half in and half out of his seat, his quadriceps screaming faintly from exertion. The marital discord workout - he should recommend it to some of plastics patients. He looks uncomfortably between the house - he can't quite make out Addison through the wooden blinds in the kitchen windows - and the shaded table where Derek is still calmly eating his dinner.

"I'm uh, well, I'm finished away," Mark says lamely.

"She's fine, Mark," Derek says between mouthfuls. "Maybe a little hormonal, but-"

"Wait, are you saying-" Mark's eyes widen. "Derek-"

"_No,_" Derek laughs, managing to look faintly horrified as he pats his mouth with a napkin. "Mark, not everyone has as much unprotected sex as you, pregnancy isn't first on everyone's mind."

"Oh."

"We're careful. We're _very_ careful. I mean, look at us, Mark, do we seem to you like we're ready for a kid?"

Mark finds it politic not to answer. He drains his glass of beer instead - Addison doesn't permit beer bottles at the table, even outside - and, holding the empty glass out like a prize, tells Derek he's going in for a refill.

He finds Addison in the kitchen in comically oversized pink rubber gloves, fussing with the dishes.

"Hey."

She turns, surprised, and soapy bubbles fly up toward him.

"Sorry!" She reaches up to swipe them off him, maybe forgetting she's wearing gloves, and ends up leaving more of them on his shirt, and then his face. "Sorry!" she says again and her face is somehow both laughing and horrified. He laughs too, and swipes his face clean with the back of his arm.

"You okay? I mean, other than - soapy?"

"I'm fine," she sighs.

"You want help with the dishes?"

She shakes her head. "I like washing them. It's - soothing."

He knew this - Derek used to joke that when she got moody he'd cancel the cleaning lady for a week so she could work herself back into good spirits - but it still makes him feel a slight twinge that she needs to be soothed. Maybe it's his loyalty to Derek, he's defensive of him, wants Derek to make his wife happy. Isn't that why people get married after all?

"I thought you were getting another beer."

Derek looks disappointed in both of them and Mark feels guilty. Monkey-in-the-middle isn't as much fun without a ball.

"I am, I just-"

"You still cranky?" Derek touches Addison's jaw lightly. "Should I be armed, or-"

A smile hovers at the corners of her lips. "You're the one who was-"

"Oh, no. We're done." He kisses her. "There, signed, sealed and delivered."

She kisses him back. "_Now _we're done."

"Fine."

"Good."

They stand in a triangle of detente for a moment and then Derek opens the fridge and tosses Mark a beer. "Let's go enjoy the fresh air. Tomorrow we're back to the concrete jungle."

"Wait for me." Addison follows them down the deck, glass of wine in hand. Mark and Derek settle in the large wooden adirondack chairs that face away from the pool. Addison traipses slowly after them - she's barefoot, and she's careful about her always perfect toenails. "Move over," she says lightly, trying to sit on the arm of Derek's chair. He tugs her down onto his lap instead and she squeals with what even Mark can tell is mock outrage.

"Derek, I'm going to spill my wine!"

"What a tragedy," he fakes lockjaw as he says it and Addison giggles even though Mark knows she's sensitive about her background. She swallows some more wine, then sets the glass in the grass and leans back against Derek, propping her feet up on the arm of Mark's chair. He swallows a crack - her feet _are _big but she laid down the law in med school, only five jokes a year and he's way over his limit. Her toes are a pale, shining pink.

"We need a third chair," Derek announces, leaning back and pulling Addison with him. Mark watches the way she nestles against him and thinks that sometimes they make marriage look nice, like something best friends do. Like something that could make you happy.

"Put it on the list," Addison sighs. She tucks her head under his chin and the three of them sit quietly, not talking, as more and more stars come out.

It's Derek who breaks the silence. "All this space, the air, doesn't it ever make you wish-"

"_Don't _start," Addison snaps, sitting up. Mark sees Derek catch her around the waist, preventing her from getting off the chair.

"Okay, okay, forget it."

Mark looks from one of them to the other again. "What is it now?"

"Nothing," they chorus.

Mark shrugs, settling back in his chair. Marriage seems like a lot more fun from the outside in, that's for sure. He decides he'll sneak out early tonight, see if that blonde from the harbor cafe is as good as her word.

* * *

_I didn't know you were coming._

_I wasn't going to, but I - you know, there's childcare, and -_

_Did you, uh, did you bring him? Your -_

_My son. I brought him. He's with Miranda._

_I know, I knew he was a boy, but - son. It sounds - _

_Sounds what?_

_Strange, I don't know._

_Strange?_

_Not in a bad way. I'm happy for you, Addison. It's just - I'm trying to picture you, you know, with a baby._

* * *

He buys the little stretchy sleeper from one of the guys near Times Square, an outdoor vendor with a thick accent and a ready smile.

"Wife is expecting?" he asks haltingly, and Mark just smiles without answering, lets him keep the change from his fifty.

"Thank you, sir!" the vendor yells out after him.

He keeps it stuffed in his pocket all day like a secret until he can see her again. The worried expression on her face stays with him, the little red o of surprise her mouth became at his reaction. She wasn't expecting him to be happy, he could tell.

They've been going back and forth, some nights at his apartment and some at the brownstone he can't help still thinking of as _AddisonandDerek's. _Tonight it's the brownstone; Addison wanted a particular pair of shoes for a presentation - how she can tell which among the hundreds is the right one, he has no idea, but he trusts her. He half-wishes they were in Chelsea instead at his less-weighty apartment, no Derek memorabilia around to judge them.

He lets himself in, pushing on the heavy door. He can see her as soon as he crosses the threshold, curled up in the chaise by the windows that overlook their small garden. Derek had a few flights of tomato-growing fancy back there, several summers in a row, even though there were acres of land in the Hamptons. Derek hated the Hamptons, though, and growing tomatoes on an uptown postage stamp might have been his way of proving it. Still. Mark wonders what will become of that little plot. Maybe the landscapers have already erased his work.

"Hi." She doesn't turn around right away, until he's closer and then he seems that her eyes are far away. It occurs to him she might have been thinking about the tomatoes too, and almost asks her about it. Her cheeks are flushed and he thinks she might have been crying.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She looks down. "Mark, look, about what I told you this morning-"

"I have something for you." The words tumble out, quick and clumsy, and he sticks a hand in his pocket to retrieve the gift.

"Oh, Mark." She's unfolded and is just staring at it. "It's so-"

"Small?" He finishes the sentence for her. "There were some even smaller ones there but I figure it's my kid, it won't be _that_ small, right?" He's talking fast, one word after the other.

"Right. It's - thank you, Mark." There are definite tears in her eyes now.

"Addie-"

"No, it's okay. I'm sorry." She runs the back of her hand across her eyes. "Hormones, you know."

_That's all it is, right? _But he doesn't ask her that. He stands there until she scooches over, just a little, to make room for him on the oversized chaise and then he settles in next to her and she crawls half onto his lap and relaxes against him, not even wincing when he rests a hand on her belly. He touches her lightly, just reassuring himself that this is real.

* * *

_And Mark._

_What about him?_

_He's a father too._

_I know that, Derek, I delivered her._

_Of course, I just meant that it's-_

_Strange?_

_Well, yeah. It was strange for me, at first but he really took to it - like he was born to do it, you must have noticed - what is it, Addison, come on, stop crying._

* * *

"You're her emergency contact," the unfamiliar voice tells him.

When he gets to the office - some Park Avenue glass-and-marble haven he's never seen before - she's dressed in her street clothes and lying on a fancier-looking version of a hospital bed, almost as pale as the white sheets.

"Addison-" He jogs to her side. He doesn't have to ask and she doesn't offer.

_I'm going to do it,_ that was all she'd said, and he'd known she meant it.

"What are you doing here?" her voice is hoarse.

"I'm your ... emergency contact." He feels silly as soon as he says it. But what else is there? _Boyfriend_ sounds wrong for them, somehow too casual and too meaningful at once. _Husband's best friend_, there's an accurate one, or maybe _ex-best-friend_ since Derek hasn't spoken to either of them since he skipped town.

He's not surprised. He didn't beg her to reconsider because he couldn't do it, couldn't pressure her to go through with it. He knew too well what it felt like to grow up unwanted. So he let her walk through the door and then then he locked it and cried. That's a secret he won't tell anyone. Not even if Derek, if Derek ever returns his calls.

"Just - help me get up," she croaks, and he does, easing her down from the bed as carefully as he can.

She leans heavily on him when they walk out. They give him prescriptions and instructions and he hears _normal_ and _to be expected_ and thinks they know fucking nothing about his life.

He kneels behind her in the master bathroom, pulls her long hair away from her face as she retches. Every time he thinks he can help her to bed and let her sleep it off she arcs back over the commode. He dampens a washcloth and wipes her face. His anger has dissipated with her pain. Yin and yang. "Take it easy," he murmurs. After the third time he folded a towel in front of the bowl to pad her knees, not wanting them to bruise. After the fifth time she's quiet, breathing slightly deeper, and she slumps down.

"You ready to get up?" He leans close, speaking softly because he knows her head is throbbing.

"I don't think I can..." her voice is still hoarse, almost unfamiliar. He recognizes what she's asking and slides a hand under her knees and another across her shoulders, lifting her as slowly and carefully as he can. Even so a moan escapes her.

"This is normal," he repeats the doctors on autopilot and she snaps at him: "I know what's normal, I'm a doctor."

When he sets her down in bed she turns away from him.

He lies down behind her, runs a tentative hand down her arm.

"Why are you doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Being nice to me."

"Addison-"

"You don't have to, okay? I know you didn't - you didn't want me to-"

"Just rest, okay? We don't have to talk about it right now." He smoothes some of her hair away from her face. It's damp with sweat and her skin is cool to the touch. "Addie..."

"Stop, Mark, just _stop_, I can't have you - _loving_ me right now." She says the word like it tastes bad.

"I can't help it."

"Please." She whispers the word into the pillow and he acquiesces, stops talking and just lightly strokes her arm; she doesn't protest again.

* * *

_Derek, I just want to say I'm sorry._

_For what? _

_For - everything, I just -_

_Addison, don't do this. This isn't the time._

_When's the time, then? We're here and, I mean, he should - he should be here._

* * *

"You're not the only one who misses him. You're not the only one who feels guilty."

"I'm sorry." She looks up, sea-green eyes shimmering with tears. They're greener when she cries, which seems like every day now.

"Don't apologize, I just-" He sits down next to her, rests his elbows on his knees. Helpless, that's how he feels. He can't make it better for either of them. "I tried calling him too."

"You did?" She looks up, hope in her eyes turning them almost blue. "Did he-"

"Went straight to voicemail."

"What were you going to say?" She asks tentatively.

"I was going to apologize," he says slowly. "But in a way, I'm glad he didn't pick up because it would have been hard-"

"Mark, don't-"

"Let me finish, okay? It would have been hard to apologize because I _am _sorry we hurt him, Addie, I really am but I'm not sorry that I have you."

She's quiet, looking down at her hands, twisting the ring on her fourth finger.

"He might come back," she whispers.

* * *

_Why won't you let me apologize?_

_Because it's - it's not necessary. It was a long time ago. We all did - we all did things._

_Then can't we all be sorry?_

* * *

"Where were you last night?"

"Surgery."

"Don't lie to me, Mark."

"Don't nag me, Addison! We're not-"

"Not what? Married?"

"That's not what I was going to say, but fine. Sure. We're not married. _You're _still married, though."

"Don't start." She turns away, pours another glass of wine.

He observes the level of burgundy liquid in the bottle. "What number is that for you?"

"Now who's nagging?"

"Why are you drowning your sorrows if this is what you want, Addison?"

"Who said this is what I want?"

He's stung and his face probably shows it.

"Charlene mentioned she worked with you today," Addison says, almost casually, and he flushes. He loosens his collar, looking for something to do with his hands. She's waiting for something, a confession maybe, or lies. He settles for neither, and just goes to the cabinet, takes his time selecting a wineglass. It's from their wedding set, and he weighs the oversized globe in his hand.

They sit side by side at the marble counter, drinking in silence.

* * *

_I wish he would - I wish I could say something to him._

_You can._

_That he would hear, I mean._

_What would you say?_

_I..._

_Addison?_

_I'm thinking. I guess I would - I guess I'd say I never thought I'd have to pick a last thing to say him. What about you, Derek? What would you say?_

_The same thing, actually. _

_Funny, isn't it?_

_What?_

_Agreeing._

* * *

She opens the door to his hotel room with her keycard, no knock, no warning.

"Jesus, Addison, I could have been naked." He changes his tone, leering a little. "And, you know, I could be, if you give me a minute-"

But she ignores the innuendo. "I told Derek."

"Told him what?" He closes the medical journal he's been reading; it was that or the hotel bar.

"About us. That we stayed together in New York after he left, and - how I felt."

It hurts him that she doesn't say _how we felt_, somehow even now he wants it acknowledged.

"And?" he challenges.

"And he said he never wants to see me again." She sits down heavily on the bed, still in a trench coat that smells like rain - it's always fucking raining here. Idly he notices the gold clip thing in her hair, holding it half off her face. She used to wear her hair like that a lot in New York, pulled back with a clip. He remembers, with a grimace, that Derek liked it that way.

"He'll get over it."

"Maybe not." She reaches for the pillows on the side of the bed he pretends is hers sometimes, straightens them automatically.

"Hey." He touches her hand lightly. "You were honest. That's a good thing."

"He hates me. That's a bad thing."

"He hates both of us then."

"Mark, why did you really come here?" she asks abruptly. "For him, or for me?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"You have to pick one," she insists.

"Why? _You_ couldn't."

His words hang in the air; he sees the pain on her face and feels guilty all over again. It's so like them - all three of them, really - dancing somewhere between joking and hurting each other, never quite sure which side of the line they were on. Her expression is making his stomach twist.

"Look, Addison-"

She schools her face, slides her trench off her shoulders. "Didn't you say something about getting naked?"

"What?"

"Na-ked," she repeats slowly, as if he's hard of hearing. She's unbuttoning her shirt and notices he's still just sitting there in sweats and an old Columbia tee shirt.

"Addison-"

"This offer expires in thirty seconds."

He whisks his shirt over his head. Not for the reasons she probably thinks, not because he's so hard up that guilty miserable women he loves turn him on - okay, this particular woman turns him on all the time. But he knows her and he knows this sex kitten act is her way of dealing with her guilt. He'll give her that so he shucks off his clothes and watches her slide her stockings down her legs. She pounces, insists on being on top, riding him fast and almost angrily. He can't complain because _my god the way we feel the way we fit you know you feel it too, don't you, Addison? _and it's still true. But the rote way she flexes her thighs, the almost mechanical movements of her hips - he knows it's guilt she's feeling with the lust, a heady combination in which he's a particular expert. He knows she needs the release.

Afterwards when he tries to pull her into his arms she pushes him away and flops back against the pillows. She folds her hands behind her head and stares at the ceiling. Resigned, he finds himself mirroring her pose. They can be as close as two people can be one minute and then this - distance. Ruefully he notices there's enough space between them in the king-sized bed for Derek to join them, his hands behind _his _head. Wouldn't that be a picture.

An accurate one.

He's the first to speak: "At least now you don't have to feel guilty anymore."

"Shut up," she says disgustedly and he can _hear_ her rolling her eyes.

They stare at the ceiling a while longer. Her annoyance radiates off her as strongly as her guilt and he wonders why she's still here. Tentatively he begins: "Are you going back to your room, or..."

She doesn't look at him. "Your bed is more comfortable."

Their beds are identical, but he'll take it.

"Then if you don't mind, I'm operating at seven and I need some sleep."

"Suit yourself."

He flicks the light, and the room falls into darkness. He can barely make out the flash of her teeth: "Don't hog the covers this time."

"I'll see what I can do for you."

He smiles to himself; when he wakes up, he's sprawled naked across the fitted sheet, nothing at all covering him. Addison, as usual, has pulled the duvet tight across her. He rests a hand on her hip, warm even under the thick covers, and she turns, still asleep, and settles in his arms. He checks his watch as carefully as he can, so as not to wake her. He has at least fifteen minutes before he needs to be out of here, which means that even if it embarrasses him a little he can rest his cheek against her shining hair, breathe in her scent, and pretend for a few more minutes.

* * *

_Are you used to it now? Having him here?_

_Of course, I - Addison, it's been years._

_I know that. It seems like a long time ago, doesn't it?_

_What?_

_I don't know. All of it._

* * *

He plays the message four times.

"Mark, it's me, I - look, I wasn't going to call you but I - I'm going out of town for a while. I'm sorry I didn't tell you in person, but-"

Then her voice goes scratchy and cuts off and he hears instead the muffled voice of an announcement, the beeping of some kind of security feature. It's obvious she's in an airport.

"-care of yourself, okay?"

That's it. He plays it again, suddenly desperate to try to figure out what he missed in those few seconds the announcement cut off her voice. He can't bear to have missed those crucial few words.

_Why? _That's what he would have asked her. There's Charlene and the others but that couldn't be why because she knew, she knew he would have stopped if she'd asked him to. Or did she? Maybe that was what she said in the part of the message he missed.

He plays it again twice before he goes to sleep. Thankful no one can see him he rests his head on her pillow, breathes in her scent. Two months wasn't very long. but she's all over his apartment somehow, little scraps of lingerie and bits of feminine frippery in each room. It doesn't look like she packed much at all, so maybe she isn't planning to be away for very long.

He thinks like a doctor, about what he knows

_the baby the women the affair all of it_

And about what he doesn't know

_where is he where the hell did he go _

Maybe she knows. Maybe she's gone to him, and - the thing is, he knows he could have found him. If he really wanted to. He hasn't been lying when he says he misses him. He hasn't been lying at all. Somehow in the back of his mind

_you're self-loathing, Mark._

He'd thought it could all work out. That he could have the woman he loves and his best friend. How stupid was that? How fucking naive?

_self-loathing and self-destructive to an almost pathological degree_

The truth is that he didn't really want to find Derek. Not if it meant Addison would go after him. Not if it meant he'd lose her. He thinks about the last two months, about the shape of the word _I love you_ from his lips, out loud.

_He doesn't know how we feel, _he'd insisted when Addison cried, as she often did, about how much they'd hurt Derek. _Maybe if he knew_...

_You think that makes it better? _Addison had spat, incredulous. She slept on the couch that night and he lay alone in blankets still warm from her body.

He wanders into the kitchen, pours himself a drink. Her metrocard is still sitting in the little china dish by the coffeemaker - that must mean she's coming back soon.

The thought comforts him as he drifts off to sleep.

Until the next morning when he tries her cell phone and it goes straight to voicemail.

* * *

_A long time - since you lived here, you mean?_

_That too. It's just been-_

_A long time._

_You've known Mark even longer. Since you were kids, and-_

_Mark was always a kid._

_You laughed!_

_Addison-_

_No, I think it's good. I feel like he would want us to - laugh. Well, not to cry, I mean-_

_Then stop crying._

_I'm trying. I'm - I'm sad, Derek. This is sad._

* * *

"Mark, go, please, just _go_, I'll call you later," her words are tumbling out as she clambers frantically across the bed, looking for her panties maybe - they keep this goddamned house so neat there's nothing just lying around for her to throw on and she flings the pillows away from her as she grows more agitated.

"I'm not going anywhere." He's still breathing heavily, from exertion and _oh my god Derek oh my god_ and he slides his hands among the rumpled flannel sheets until he finds her discarded CBGB shirt - that's really to blame, she looks so damned good in it even though it's really Derek's.

She grabs it from his hands. "Go, Mark, _go._"

"Addison, no, we have to talk to Derek, we have to explain-"

"_I _have to talk to him, _you_ have to get out." She's frantic and teary and it's hard to believe a minute ago, two minutes ago, she was writhing in his arms, neck arched with ecstasy, her body wrapped around his.

"Addison-"

"Please, Mark." She grabs his face in her hands, and he feels them trembling. "For me, okay, just do this for me, _go._"

He goes. He yanks on his pants, tries to catch her eye one last time but her back is turned; she's digging around for her panties again, no doubt. He pads out of the bedroom. Derek's nowhere in sight. He turned around when he saw them, but not before Mark saw the horror on his face, the shock. The betrayal.

Best friends.

He gets all the way down the foyer before he sees him. Derek's standing at the bar just off the hall, carefully pouring a glass of scotch. For a moment Mark just stares. Slowly, deliberately, Derek drains the glass. He looks up and their eyes meet.

"Derek-"

But Derek just looks right through him, like he's not even there. And that's when he knows it's really over.

He's sitting on the leather couch in his living room, his face in his hands, still damp from tonight's driving rain, wondering if either of his best friends will ever talk to him again. A pounding on his door startles him out of his thoughts.

"Mark! Let me in, Mark!"

He jerks the door open and, one fist still raised, Addison loses her balance and falls against him. His arms close around her automatically. She's shaking, wet cheek icy against his neck.

"Come ... in," he stammers, pulling her back with him as he closes the door. "Addison, you're freezing, did you-"

"I walked from fifty-ninth." She pulls back from him. "There was traffic and I couldn't just _sit _there in this - there's construction at Columbus Circle or something, and they really need to do something about it because people need to _get _places, and-"

"Addison!" he sharpens his voice. Her chatter is scaring him, fast and disconnected and he wonders if she's in shock. When he lets go of her she wobbles slightly on her feet. He steadies her, then helps her off with the trench coat. What he sees underneath makes his stomach drop and her bare legs make sense. She's wearing nothing but the CBGB shirt he handed her before he left.

"You must be freezing." He's repeating himself, he feels a little shocky too - it's April but unseasonably cold, like the weather knew something was going to happen. He tows her to the couch, grabs an afghan and wraps her in it. "You want a drink?"

She nods unsteadily, teeth chattering. He pushes a brandy into her hand like she's a lost skier and she takes a swallow, coughing a little.

"Take it easy." He steadies the glass. "Addison, what happened? What happened after I left?"

She stares into the glass. "Nothing."

"Nothing? You didn't - talk to Derek?"

"He wouldn't t-talk to me." Her teeth are still chattering. "He left, he said he'd go and I should stay, but he's coming back in the morning. He's coming back in the morning, Mark."

"Okay. Just - drink that, okay? Are you a little warmer now?"

"No. I'm cold."

There's another blanket in the wooden chest by the television - his hope chest, Addison used to tease him - and he pulls a soft crocheted thing from there that Carolyn Shepherd must have made for him. Without pondering that he brings it over to the couch. Addison's wearing scuffed boat shoes, totally inappropriate for the weather, and they look like they might actually be Derek's. The fact that their feet were the same size was the source of no end of teasing. He slips the shoes off for her, wraps the blanket around her legs and pulls them onto his lap, intending to massage warmth into her icy feet. What he sees stops him in his tracks.

"Addison, what the hell?"

She ignores him, takes another shaky sip of brandy.

"Addison." He taps her leg lightly. "Look at me - what on earth -"

"It's f-fine."

"It's not fine."

"_I said it's fine!_" She screams the words, startling him, and the brandy glass slips out of her hands and shattered on his hardwood floor. They stare at each other in silence for a second, and then she dissolves in tears.

"Addison..." He can't take this, seeing her in so much pain, but it seems fair punishment for what he's done to them. The golden couple. _AddisonandDerek_. He deserves this pain. But she doesn't.

She turns and hides her face in the couch, shoulders shaking, and he sits helplessly, hands resting on her legs in his lap. Slowly, gingerly, he peels the blanket back again to look at her feet. Addison's feet, Addison who was perfectly pedicured even in the misery of med school finals. The soles of her feet are dark with dirt, tiny pebbles encrusted in places, a scrape on one of them crusted with dried blood and what looks like -

"Jesus, is that glass?"

She doesn't answer.

"Okay, just - sit here for a second." It's a meaningless command because she doesn't move while he goes to the kitchen, fills a bowl with warm water, gets clean gauze. He grabs tweezers, sterilizes them quickly over the open flame of his stove. Like a rogue prairie doctor. Like someone who actually knows what he's doing.

"Tell me what happened." He lifts her feet back into his lap. "You run out of there barefoot or something?"

She lifts her teary face from the couch. "Or something."

"Just hold still," he's muttering. "This might hurt a little-"

"Ow!"

"Sorry, I'm sorry." He rests a comforting hand on her ankle. "Just try to relax for a second, okay?"

She shoots him a wounded look, still crying a little, chest jerking with out-of-control breath, but slowly she leans back against the cushions.

"This isn't the Hamptons, Addie," because as he gently washes the grime he sees it's not quite as bad as he feared, and relief makes him almost lighthearted. "You can't run around Manhattan barefoot, you know."

"I know." Her voice is very soft. She's staring at his ceiling.

"There's just a little glass." He feels her tense under his hands. "It's okay, I'll be quick. Just don't move."

She holds very still. He grips the sole of her foot firmly, and the tweezers make short work of it and the remaining pebbles. He treats the scrapes, doles out gauze, and by the time he finishes she's sunk back against the cushions, looking as exhausted as she must feel.

"All done," he says quietly.

"Thanks," she whispers. She doesn't open her eyes. Won't tell him anything else about what happens, but lets him ease her out of the damp shirt and into his warm sweats, let him take her trembling body into his arms and bury them both in his down comforter. He only knows she's fallen asleep because her shuddering breaths become longer and more even, but no less heartbreaking. He closes his own eyes but with a surgeon's attention to detail he can't help but feel there's a missing piece, something he doesn't know.

* * *

_You're the one who always says there's a lot we don't know about the brain._

_I know. I believe that._

_Then it's possible. That he can hear us. You really think that?_

_I don't know, Addison, and I don't think it matters._

_How can you say that?_

_Because it - it's just - look, you flew in this morning. I've been here this whole time._

_Don't throw that in my face. _

_I'm not. I'm just saying, take - just take your time. It gets easier._

_It does?_

* * *

It's weeks before she tells him. They're arguing in his living room - he thinks it starts with her wedding rings, or maybe the overly friendly barista at that stupid coffee place Addison drags him too in the mornings. It ends with her turning her back in the middle of his attempt to explain himself.

He takes her arm, not with any force, but just to keep her from walking away because they don't do that, they don't walk away from each other.

She yanks her arm fiercely out of his grip, startling him.

"_Don't_ do that, Mark, don't _grab_ me."

"I'm sorry." He holds both hands up, genuinely surprised. "I"m sorry, Addison, I would never-"

"I know you wouldn't." Her expression changes, and she sighs. "Look, just forget it."

"I don't want to forget it." He follows her into the kitchen, where she ignores him, slowly pouring herself a drink. "What is it, Addie?"

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"Mark, can you just let up for a second, _please_?"

"No!" He slaps the counter for emphasis. "That's not how this works. You want to be ignored, you want to ignore me, go back to Derek."

She turns around, eyes wide, and for a moment they both bask in his cruelty.

"That is not fair."

"That is completely fair. I want to be _with_ you, Addison. A relationship. You know? Where you talk, and actually _share-_"

"Oh, that is _rich_ -" her voice is high and shrill. "Like you know anything about relationships, like you know anything about anything except I've thrown my marriage away, I've thrown my life away and _you_ dare lecture me on relationships- stop it, Mark!" because he's put his arms around her, and he holds her against him even as she pushes on his chest.

"Get off me."

"I'm sorry," he whispers against her skull. "I didn't mean it."

"You did," she says dully into his neck, but she stops struggling. After a moment her arms come up around his back. They stand in the kitchen holding each other, the single wineglass on the counter looking at them with what feels like accusation.

"There's something you're not telling me," he says when she pulls back, takes a sip of her wine.

"There's probably a lot you're not telling me," she counters, but the fight seems to have gone out of her and by the time they pull back the covers of his bed she's softened, her tone and her limbs, and she crawls into his arms. He strokes her hair off her face.

"We're a mess," she sighs.

"Quite the pair," he adds and feels her tense in his arms at the word _pair._

"Tell me," he says softly.

"It's nothing."

"Then it shouldn't be a big deal to tell me. It's about the night Derek caught us, isn't? What don't I know, Addie? How did you end up - what happened?"

She turns away from him, staying within the circle of his arms, and he responds automatically, spooning her against him. They lie in silence for a while, and then she tells him, very quietly, and very quickly.

He slows his breath consciously, even though blood is pounding in his ears, behind his eyes. He knew he shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have left her there.

He just whispers _I'm sorry._

He feels her shrug. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"After what he - I think he was justified."

"He was not justified," he pronounces the words very slowly and carefully. "I don't care _what_ we did. I shouldn't have left you there, Addison, I- goddamn it," he says finally, and he just buries his face in her hair, wondering if the guilt will ever go away. Or at least lessen.

"It's really nothing," she says again, softly. "It barely hurt."

"Addie," he offers bleakly.

"Stop it. Don't feel guilty. I can _feel _you just - don't get all superhero, Mark, it doesn't matter. _We _did this. We betrayed _him._ And I asked you to leave and - look, he wouldn't have really hurt me. I know him."

"I know him too."

And they lie there in silence; he's contemplating the word _really _and how much all three of them have _really_ hurt each other. He thinks he knows her well enough by now to say she's thinking the same thing.

* * *

_It's so quiet._

_I thought you'd fallen asleep for a second._

_I was just resting my eyes. And I was thinking, Derek - I was thinking that I can't remember._

_What can't you remember?_

_The last time the three of us were alone in a room together. Do you?_

_No. _

_You don't? I want to remember, but I can't. I remember other things. Do you remember his best man speech - he just had to pound those shots during the cocktail hour, and then he-_

_I remember._

_What else do you-_

_I remember everything, Addison. I remember all of it. _ _Beginning to-_

_Don't say it, Derek._

_Okay. I won't say it._

* * *

"If I'm the best they could do for best man, you know they're hard up." He waits for polite laughter, the bow tie itching his neck. He only likes public speaking if he's talking about surgery. Or sexual conquests, or tennis. He's not good at much else, and he hates feeling awkward. He focuses on the pretty girls in the room - what's that they always say? Picture the audience in their underwear? _No problem there. _

"Anyway, uh, let's all raise our glasses to Addison and Derek."

"_To Addison and Derek!" _

He swallows his champagne in one gulp. When he gets back to the table Derek claps him on the back and Addison kisses his cheek. She's tipsy-sweet drunk, adorable really. Her blonde friend with the silly name starts a much more rehearsed speech and he slumps in his chair, wondering which bridesmaid he should check off his list tonight.

It's not that he's not happy for them, it's just that a couple is _two _people, two, not three. The wedding rings are going to separate them, that's what he's worried about.

"We're sharing custody of you, Mark." Addison is as drunk as he's seen her - so much for champagne-sweet - as he helps to pack them off in their limo. It's white, and he teases them, tells her it should have been a horse-drawn carriage. Her brother Archer, holding a cigar, ambles out to meet them. Their frosty breath mingles in the air: a winter wedding.

"You seeing the happy couple off?" Archer drawls.

Addison beams. "He's our best man," she giggles. "Our third - our three musketeer." She frowns. "Wait, that's not right, is it?"

"The three musketeers." Derek is sorting through a stack of envelopes and Archer shoots him a dirty look.

"More like the three horsemen of the apocalypse."

Addison giggles again. "Archie, don't be so - " she trails off, then pats his chest, just under his bow tie. "Take care of Mark for us, will you?"

"I think Mark can take care of himself." Archer winks at him. "I overheard some of the bridesmaids talking about the whirlpool in the spa."

"Archie!" Addison says again, and Mark grins. He knew he liked Archer.

"Okay!" Derek rejoins the group, all smiles, wrapping an arm around Addison. "I think we're ready to go."

* * *

_Are you ready?_

_I can't answer that._

_We've already waited for you to get here, Addison, we had to get signoff from the lawyers even to wait this long. You've read the advance directive-_

_But we should wait for Callie, or-_

_She told us not to; she could be in the OR for hours. It's just us._

* * *

He can't take his eyes off her as she stumbles out of the room, swaying violently. She ignored him when he ordered her out of there - she was never one to take orders - but he doesn't let out his own breath until the door swings open under her weight and she falls into his arms.

He doesn't know or care who's listening, just knows that she's alive and breathing roughly in his arms as he catches her, so nothing else matters.

"I've got you. I've got you, baby."

Burke turns around as the suited-up team marches into the OR, maybe to see if Addison is okay, but Derek just sails past them in his HAZMAT suit. No one can focus on work like he does, until everything else disappears.

It's the way he's focusing on Addison now, he realizes. Her breathing is all he can hear and feel, her ribcage expanding under his hands. He pulls her closer, just holds her for a second, and when she doesn't say anything - he half expects her to yell at him - he bends his knees and scoops her into his arms. He's struck immediately by how light she feels, the span of her ribs narrow in his arms. When was the last time he carried her like this - no, he won't think about that. But he wonders if she's eating right out here, or just chasing a bad day with Malbec like she used to do at home. He carries her down the hall, breaking into a jog.

"I need a little help here!"

Two residents whose names he hasn't bothered to learn rush to his aid.

He eases her down on an empty bed, and then Dr. Bailey and some others are there too. They start to fit her with an oxygen mask; she stirs then, twisting away. Mark leans over her. "It's okay. Let them help you," he murmurs, and she stills long enough for oxygen.

He's watching as the color slowly returns to her face. Her eyes, when she opens them, are huge. Her lips part, and he lifts the oxygen mask carefully so she can talk. "M-Mark?"

He touches her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I'm here."

"What happened." Her voice is scratchy, too weak to form a real question mark.

"Toxic patient," he's smiling now, he can't help it, to see her up and around. "You just had to bust in there like a superhero."

He sees recognition cross her face. "Is she - okay?"

Typical Addison, worried about the patient when she herself could have died. He's proud _and _annoyed, and both emotions creep into his voice. "Derek and some others are in there now working on her. We'll see."

"Can you help me-" She's struggling to sit up. He touches her shoulder lightly.

"I think you should rest a little longer."

But she's already halfway up so he replaces her oxygen mask, ignoring her slight protest, and slides his hands under her arms to take her weight against him. She's dizzy when she upright, as he predicted, and leans against him for a moment, breathing slowly into her mask. He strokes her hair. For just a second the busy hospital quiets and he remembers what it feels like to hold her. Then she draws back. "I'm okay."

"Good." He waits with her anyway, doctor's orders. He sees the Chief call out for him, back now with Burke and Derek, and he gives Addison one last once-over before he walks away, stroking her hair one last time.

As he and the Chief talk he catches Derek and Addison out of the corner of his eye looking at him with disgust. _What did I do this time? _But a little part of him enjoys seeing them working as a team.

* * *

_I don't want someone else to do it._

_We can do it ourselves, then. Together._

_Why can't he - he'd want to be a donor, Derek._

_I know, but his organs were too damaged. I told you._

_Yeah. I know. But he would want to._

_He would._

_The - superhero thing. The god complex._

_You used to say I was the one who had a god complex._

_You did too. Do, I mean. You do. You haven't changed that much. _

_You have._

_He changed, too. Look, Derek, can we wait? A few minutes, or-_

_There's just no time, Addie. _

_Okay. Okay._

_It's won't be right away, you know that. We can say-_

_Goodbye?_

_Whatever you want to say._

_With-without Callie, it - it feels almost right - no, wait, that sounds horrible. I just meant it almost feels right that it's just the three of us, at the... I don't want to say it._

_Just say it._

_At the end. That's what I was going to say. The three of us, at the end._

_Like at the beginning, you mean?_

* * *

"This is her? The girl you've been chewing my ear off about?"

"Why, I don't seem worth it?"

"I definitely didn't say that."

She grins and Derek rolls his eyes.

"Addison Montgomery." She sticks out her hand.

"Mark Sloan." He takes her hand in his. "Nice to finally meet you. This one hasn't shut up about you." He jerks his head in Derek's direction.

"He talks about you a lot too. He said you were a handful. And I guess he was right."

"Me? Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. This is just the beginning."

He holds onto her hand for the briefest moment longer, then lets go.

* * *

_I'm not ready to let go._

_It's okay, you don't have to. We've done our part. He'll let go. When he's ready._

* * *

"To us!"

They clink glasses.

"God, I can't believe we're actually doctors. It doesn't feel real, does it?"

"Not even a little." Addison throws back the shot. "Doctors. Who can - _do _stuff. Even you, Mark! And I kicked your ass in every class."

"Not every class."

"Maybe if you flirted less and studied more."

"I did fine," he says firmly, signals the bartender for another shot.

Derek grins, wiping a hand across his mouth. "I was hoping we'd all match together."

"The happy couple matched together, at least," Mark concedes. "And I'm just across town. This isn't over yet."

"Better not be!"

They clink glasses again and throw back the last shot in tandem.

* * *

_Is it over? It doesn't feel - it will feel different, right, when it... when it's over?_

* * *

"Come on, Derek, _you_? Falling this hard, this fast? I have to meet her."

* * *

_You hold his other hand._

_Addison, I don't-_

_Do it, Derek, please._

_Okay, okay. I'm holding it. _

_Don't let go, okay? Not until-_

_I won't let go._

* * *

"Addison Montgomery." She sticks out her hand, and he takes it in his.

* * *

_Give me your hand._

_What?_

_Your other hand, Derek, give it to me._

_Addison, what are you-_

_Give me your hand, Derek! He would want - Mark would want... Look, just give it to me - thank you._

* * *

"Red rover, red rover-"

"No, Aunt Addie, you're doing it wrong. You have to hold hands, that's the rules."

"Oh!" Addison smiles at her niece. "Sorry, honey, I haven't played in a while."

"That's okay," the little brunette says magnanimously. "You're already holding Uncle Derek's hand so that's good-"

The adults smile at this.

"But hold Uncle Mark's too, you're making, like, a - wall," she describes, waving her little hands.

"Like this?" Addison reaches for Mark with her other hand, both arms now outstretched. The sun is shining warmly on them and the lake glitters in the distance. Nancy lost the coin toss so the July 4th barbecue is at her place this time. A warm breeze touches Mark's face as Addison slips her fingers into his.

"Perfect," the little girl beams - it's Hayley, he's always mixing her up with Caitlin, but it's definitely Hayley because she's missing more teeth.

"Hold on tight, okay? You have to be a wall. You have to not let anything break you."

"What's going to break us?"

"Me," Hayley giggles. "And Tommy and Jack. So get ready."

She nudges her cousins.

"You ready? You holding on tight?"

"We're ready."

Addison stands between them, one hand in either man's hand, holding them together, and three little blurs run toward them. Addison's hand closes more firmly on Mark's, and he imagines she must be doing the same on the other side, to Derek, making a wall that no one can break.

* * *

_Do you think there's a chance he - knows, Derek? That he knows we're here?_

_Maybe he does, Addie. _

_Is he - oh, Derek- don't let go, I think he's-_

_I won't let go-_

_He's-_

* * *

It's the best towel-cape he's ever made. It feels like flying for real.

* * *

_- gone._

* * *

_Time of death, 18:23_

* * *

**_I'm just chasing time again.  
__Thought I would die a lonely man, in endless night.  
__But now I'm high; running wild among all the stars above.  
__Sometimes it's hard to believe you remember me_**

_High_, by James Blunt.


End file.
